


A time for every purpose (expanded)

by doomed_spectacles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Banter, Conversations, Dialogue Heavy, Drunken Flirting, First Kiss, Flirting, M/M, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28949376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Five firsts during Aziraphale and Crowley's friendship + one first that hints at what might come next.(An expanded version of the dialogue-only fic of the same name.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	A time for every purpose (expanded)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A time for every purpose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28757721) by [doomed_spectacles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles). 



> The original version of this was written with a 500-word restriction. This is the expansion that includes dialogue tags and descriptions. I'm not in love with the title but it'll do. Just a bit of through-the-ages softness in the form of a 5+1. The original prompt was "firsts" and it was fitting that this was my first 5+1. <3

[tempt]

“So? How’d it go?”

Before answering, Aziraphale looked behind him at the door, then to his right at the rough-looking men inside the tavern. They paid him no mind, instead getting on with the business of drinking. Crowley raised his eyebrows and swiveled his head a bit, waiting on an answer. He didn’t have all day.

“Fine,” the angel said at last. He pursed his lips and peered into his drink. His lip curled slightly. Decades-worth of distaste hid in the gesture, though it was just the slightest movement of his plump upper lip. Human beverages were due for an improvement, Crowley thought. A thought surely unrelated to the curling of one angelic lip in a tavern in what would one day be called Belgium.

“Fine?” Crowley replied, not hiding his exasperation. “I need details, Aziraphale!” If he turned in a report that said _fine_ in the Temptation Results column he ran the risk of receiving a memo. Hell had been sending memos in the form of notes attached to flaming arrows lately. Singed eyebrows were no fun to deal with, no matter who you were.

Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. He stared straight ahead and said, “ _Fine_. All according to-”

“Plan? A plan that is, shall we say, ineffable?” He said it, and intended it, snottily.

Those perfect pink lips pursed even harder. They were pressed into a thin line that made little wrinkles appear in the corners where Aziraphale’s dimples should’ve been. Could’ve been. Had been. Not that Crowley had been in the habit of noticing Aziraphale’s dimples.

“Don't taunt, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He took a drink of his ale and winced into the earthen cup. He kept the cup at his mouth and said his next words into it, with a little sideways glance to make sure Crowley heard. “It’s below even _your_ already low station.”

“Says the angel who just tempted a-”

“Not so loud!” Aziraphale said, loudly.

“No one’s listening. Even if they were-”

“We would both be in serious trouble.” He was finally looking at Crowley, with a mixture of consternation and excitement in his eyes. Aziraphale’s face rarely held just one expression. When he was incensed, he could also be amused. When pleased, he was thoughtful. Aziraphale’s face was so expressive Crowley wondered if he knew how much it gave away. The littlest twitch of his eyebrows or the twinkle of an eye belied the set of his jaw every time.

Or maybe the ale was finally kicking in.

“No one cares. And if they cared, I’d-”

“You’d what?”

Crowley shook his head, tossing his hair about. It swished over his outer coat in a dramatic way he hadn’t intended but he found he didn’t mind.

“Nothing.”

“You’d what, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was growing higher and louder now. His body was turned to face Crowley’s, any pretense of unfamiliarity between them gone. “Give me up? Throw me under the bus?”

“No! We’re in this together,” Crowley said, hissing a little despite himself. “And buses don’t exist yet.”

Aziraphale glared at him but said nothing.

Crowley didn’t reply either. He took a sip of truly awful ale and waited. The little anxious wrinkles on Azirahale’s cheeks were turning into something else. Crowley didn’t study the angel’s face. He watched his opponent, seeking insight he could use to his advantage. Eventually, the dimples appeared.

Aziraphale leaned in close so that they were shoulder to shoulder. His light cream linens appeared even brighter and cleaner next to Crowley’s black wool. He glanced quickly around again, then said in a low voice full of mischief, “The duke wasn’t at all difficult to tempt, you know. He took to it like, well, something easily taken. The jester on the other hand…”

Crowley smothered a smile.

“ _Do tell_.”

* * *

[bless]

“Come in, Crowley.”

The demon didn’t move. He jammed his hands in the folds of his overcoat and rocked back and forth on his heels. Crowley was wearing dark burgundy hose and pattens over black pointed poulaines that looked both extremely stylish and utterly impractical.

“Nah,” he said, not looking at Aziraphale. “Just here to tell you it’s done.”

Aziraphale huffed. He held open the chapel door, letting in the cold winds raging outside. “Nonsense, you’ll catch your death out there. Er, you know what I mean.”

But Crowley remained on the threshold. He wouldn’t look at Aziraphale. “It’s-”

Crowley stuck a leg out from his tunic, showing off a shapely leg. He set his pointy toe on the wooden threshold of the chapel and left it there. Aziraphale’s brow knitted as he waited for understanding and his cheeks warmed a few degrees as he kept his eyes on the gentle curve of Crowley’s calf.

Then smoke started billowing from his shoe.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand in front of his nose to dissipate the smell of burning demon. “Oh, I see.”

“Consecrated. Sizzles the feet. Not a big deal. Anyway-”

“Crowley-”

“‘S fine, Aziraphale.” Crowley still wouldn't look at him. The winds swept his hair about dramatically and a fine mist had left a sheen on his exposed face. The darkened spectacles he'd taken to wearing a millennium or so ago had fogged over.

“But-”

“Don’t. Blessing’s done. Family’ll have good harvests for years.” He sniffed, whether from actual cold or a distaste for the conversation, it was hard to tell. “No trouble. I’ll be on my way.”

“Crowley... Thank you.”

“Nah. No, that is — _arrangement_ , remember? See you around.” Crowley turned on his impossibly pointed shoe and strode off into the storm. A gust of wind made him teeter on those handsome, spindly legs, but he caught himself before he fell.

“Right.”

“Right.” This was tossed casually over Crowley's shoulder, as though his words were grains of salt warding off spirits. After he'd gone several paces, clearly expecting Aziraphale to no longer be watching, Crowley hunched his shoulders against the storm and broke out into an awkward jog.

Aziraphale closed the chapel door and returned to his books and his warm seat by a raging fire.

* * *

[name]

He was trying to explain to the third Aziraphale but the angel didn't seem to get it. The other two Aziraphales were swaying a little, just outside the periphery of his vision. Why was it so dark in here? And why didn't the angel seem to understand quantum physics?

“Listen, _angel_ , I’m not saying Socrates was wrong, but-”

“What did you say?” Aziraphale hiccupped loudly. Or actually, that might’ve been him. Crowley wasn’t sure which one of the Aziraphales had spoken but they seemed to have merged into one. That was good. One Aziraphale was enough to handle. Three seemed excessive. 

“Socrates,” he repeated. When would the angel—or _angels_ —catch up? “Wrong. Not wrong, just human. Listen, angel-”

“There, you-”

“He’s not on the wrong track but he’s on the track!” Crowley gestured widely to indicate the wrong track that Socrates, Aristotle, that weasel Descarte, and all the other human philosophers had run around and around on, chasing their own ideas like dogs chasing tails. His wine spilled on the table between them and the angel had the grace not to mention it. “God, all of us, we’re looking down on the track. See?”

“No, I don’t.” Aziraphale had split again, this time into two Aziraphales. One of them was pouting into his wine and the other was pouting at Crowley. “You called me-”

Crowley focused. It was extremely difficult and he gave up almost immediately.

“‘S like that guy, he’s going to put a cat in a box, and- no, wait.” Crowley had mimed the figure of a box, the kind that would someday in a lab in Austria hold a cat. Or not hold a cat. His hands remained parallel to one another on the table, miming the box. Crowley considered. His erstwhile companion had fused into one angel again and was regarding him with polite disinterest. That was an improvement over the pouting, at least. Crowley continued.

“Quantum entanglement! If humans know they’re part of the plan, knowing alters the plan!” He thumped the table to make his point, disturbing the half empty bottle on the table between them along with the four empty ones next to it. He slumped back in his seat. “That’s not it, either.”

“Crowley, you’re drunk.”

“No, _angel_ , listen-”

“You keep calling me that, and-”

“Cuz’s right,” Crowley said, keeping the hiss out of his voice but unable to stop from slurring. “You’re, mm, _angel_ , and-”

“Will you remember this conversation tomorrow?” Aziraphale sighed, putting his chin in his hand and regarding him with more pity than Crowley liked to see in his enemy’s face. He preferred pleading, taunting, teasing, and even haughty condescension over pity. Every now and then, though he’d never admit it, Aziraphale’s face curled into a smile so genuine Crowley knew it was reserved for him.

He hiccupped again. 

“Probably not.”

Crowley rested his head against the wall. It was hard and cold but not the worst pillow he’d ever used. In Hell, they’d given the demons blocks of ice for pillows before deciding that iron-hot spikes were the way to go. Crowley’s eyelids were like magnets; he couldn’t have stopped them from joining if he’d tried. Before sleep claimed him, he heard Aziraphale sighing again.

“I like it,” he said. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

* * *

[sell]

“Can you imagine my distress?”

“No.”

Crowley’s eyebrows were raised above his spectacles, which were particularly ridiculous this decade. Small oval lenses were in fashion these days and Crowley had always had an eye for human trends. But the lenses themselves were a deep blue color, which the demon had insisted were the latest in optical technology. He assured Aziraphale they’d be de rigueur within a decade, a fact that Aziraphale didn’t dispute. Aziraphale had himself started wearing a pair of round eye-glasses while he was working, but would never admit this to Crowley, who would tease him until the turn of the next century.

Aziraphale huffed, returning to the subject of his current distress. The subject of which Crowley was not at all taking seriously.

He said, “I couldn’t think of a reason not to fast enough! Now his grubby hands are disturbing the spine as we speak. It’s dreadful, Crowley! I never imagined.”

“Can’t imagine why opening a bookshop might make you think you’d have to sell a book.” Crowley’s voice was as dry as the wine he was pouring.

“I knew I _might_.”

“Then why’re you so stressed about it?”

“I didn’t think it’d be so soon!” Aziraphale gratefully took the glass Crowley held out and drank. If his fiendish companion didn’t appreciate his distress then he’d just have to drown it in a quality Bordeaux.

“You’ve had this shop for eighteen years and you haven’t sold a single book?”

“I’ve been busy,” Aziraphale said, not quite looking Crowley in the eye. Eye-glass, rather.

The grandfather clock he’d installed in the shop chimed half one. Aziraphale continued to drink while Crowley glanced around the state of the bookshop. His collection had grown considerably since he’d last seen his opponent. But it wasn’t his fault if humans had discovered several new continents lately! They’d been busy trading knowledge at the speed of whatever new mode of transport they invented and Aziraphale had, indeed, been busy reading. Crowley knew that just as well as anyone. Better than anyone else, in fact. Aziraphale didn’t dwell on that thought.

At last, Crowley spoke.

“You’re not a bookseller, you’re a dragon squatting on books like gold.”

“I’ll thank you to take that back,” Aziraphale replied with a sniff.

He didn’t. As usual, Crowley doubled down. He set his glass down so Aziraphale could see his smirk properly.

“I’m calling you dragon from now on.”

“You’re awful.”

“Let’s go to lunch, _dragon_ ,” Crowley said, rolling his ‘r’ for emphasis in a way he knew would grate on Aziraphale’s ears.

Aziraphale didn’t reply. Crowley’s eyebrows were raised above his spectacles again, this time in entreaty. He would say yes. They both knew it. But Crowley’s ask and his hesitation were rituals, as ingrained in them as stories were in humans. He pressed his lips together and waited.

“I’m buying.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale said, hiding a pleased smile behind his glass. The dragon prevailing over the knight but gleefully anticipating the next round.

* * *

[hold]

“All right?”

“Yes.”

He wasn't. 

Crowley could tell by a thousand different things. The set of his jaw, which had softened over the years, growing closer and closer to his collar until eventually Crowley thought they might fuse. His eyebrows, which were valiantly trying to stay out of a flying V, like ducks told to break their instinctive pattern. His mouth, which was set in a thin line that allowed for no dimples to show on his cheeks. The whiteness of his face, which should be rosy with the glow of a fire and good wine.

His eyes met Crowley’s briefly, then flicked away. They were tired and afraid. The garish lights of the bus rolled over them in waves of strange neon that broke the dark. Crowley watched Aziraphale in profile, waiting for him to break so he could gather the pieces.

“No, actually,” he said finally. Quietly. Aziraphale’s eyes cast downwards, studying his hands clasped in his lap.

“We’ll sort it. Faces, wisely. It’ll sort.”

“Crowley-”

“We’ll sort it, angel,” Crowley said firmly. He removed his glasses and put them in his jacket pocket. The rocking motion of the bus pushed him gently into Aziraphale and then away.

“Our side.” It was barely a whisper but Aziraphale’s voice didn’t shake.

“Yeah.”

A moment passed. Then two. Crowley stared straight ahead. He swallowed. The fear, a cold knot in his throat, remained. He took Aziraphale’s hand.

“Your hand is cold. And shaking.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

[kiss]

“Thank you for lunch, dear,” Aziraphale said. He’d already said it but it bore repeating. Crowley would only get the chance to buy him one lunch specifically celebrating the continued existence of the world. He hoped so, anyway.

They walked, side by side, arms brushing occasionally. The late summer air was tinged with freshness. Something new that surely no one else noticed. Aziraphale breathed it in and smiled, feeling, rather than seeing, Crowley smothering his own smile.

“No bother.”

Crowley took his elbow as they crossed the street to the bookshop. He let his oldest enemy steer him to the entranceway of his miraculously still-standing shop. They stood at the door, staring their feelings at each other.

“What will you do now?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley considered. Words flickered across his face as expressions but didn’t emerge from his mouth. He cleared his throat, then shoved his hands in minuscule pockets. 

Finally, he said, “Anything I like, s’pose.”

“What would you like to do, then, Crowley?”

The kiss was small.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said. He exhaled and Crowley was so close he breathed it in. A new air hovered between them.

“Oh?” Crowley’s head cocked to the side. A question posed in a gesture he’d seen thousands of times over thousands of dinner tables. That one syllable held six thousand years worth of questions. Crowley always asked and he always answered, but this time his answer was yes.

“Yes.”

Crowley smiled. It was the teeth-baring smile he rarely showed. The one he couldn’t hold back no matter how hard he tried. When Crowley smiled that toothy smile, his entire face lit with an internal fire that not even Heaven could suppress. It was a smile only Crowley could smile. His demon, his adversary, his world.

“What would you like now, angel?”

“I think I’d like you to kiss me again,” Aziraphale said.

“Gladly.”

Crowley kissed him again and the second kiss wasn’t small at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Trivia:  
> -poulaines are those ridiculous pointed shoes you see in old paintings sometimes  
> -pattens are coverings to go over your shoes to keep them from the mud  
> -it might seem odd for Crowley to wear blue spectacles but they were all the rage for a brief period in the early 1800s or so my brief bit of research indicates
> 
> [this is me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)


End file.
